by Jackie Lau
“My head hurts just thinking about that.” Julian groans.
“Anyway, long story short, they’re a happy couple now.”
Crap. I’ve made it sound like I want a fake relationship because it could turn into something real.
I hurry to add, “Not that I want that to happen to you and me.”
“Of course not,” he murmurs. “What do you have against me, anyway?”
“Nothing. I just don’t do relationships. You said you don’t, either. Remember?”
He nods. “In my case, it’s because I work too hard. I might want a relationship, but I’m too much of a workaholic for one to ever succeed.”
“Is that what your ex-girlfriends said when they dumped you?”
“Yes. They complained that I was always at the office and wasn’t emotionally invested in the relationship.” He pauses. “But that can’t be your reason for not dating.”
“It isn’t.”
A silence.
“Care to elaborate?” he asks.
“Not really.”
He seems to accept that. “Would you like me to make you a latte?”
“Ooh! Yes, please.”
He smiles at me, as though he finds my excitement rather cute.
“I can’t believe you have a fancy espresso machine,” I say, then realize who I’m talking to. “Actually, I can totally believe it.” I walk over to the counter and peer at the machine. “Cool.”
“What would you like to eat?”
“What are you having?”
“I ate an hour and a half ago. Bacon and scrambled eggs. I can make you some?”
“Ooh, that sounds wonderful!”
He tilts his head and looks at me as though he can’t quite figure me out. “Are you always like this?”
I remember decadent chocolates tasting like woodchips.
I remember my sister bringing me to the emergency room.
“No, I’m not. But this is an entirely different world for me, and it’s kind of exciting.” I hesitate. “Do you think I’m shallow?”
“Not at all.”
I sit down at the table and watch him prepare my breakfast. I’d figured a man like Julian wouldn’t even be able to boil water and would consider such tasks beneath him, but he moves around the kitchen with ease. It’s been a long time since a man cooked a meal for me. Actually, I’m not sure it’s ever happened before.
“Do you cook often?” I ask as he beats two eggs with chopsticks.
“Just on the weekends. My housekeeper makes my dinners during the week.”
Of course he has a housekeeper.
Like I said, this is an entirely different world for me. It’s like when you’re traveling to a new city and everything feels brand new.
Julian is wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. I admire his arm muscles as he works the espresso machine, the perfect lines of his back. He exudes power, even when he’s making a latte.
He doesn’t look much like his brother, plus the way Vince carries himself is completely different. Vince swaggers or saunters into a room; Julian strides. Perhaps that’s a silly distinction, but there’s a massive difference simply in the way they walk. And sit. Julian would never sprawl on a couch the way Vince did. Julian’s taller, too—he’s about six feet, whereas Vince is maybe five-nine.
Vince also smiles easily, carelessly. Julian’s default expression is more serious, but when he does smile, it’s a zillion times better.
Actually, Vince looks a little different in real life than he did in the calendar. He’s a bit lankier and not as muscled. Is that the camera or has his physique changed since that picture was taken a few years ago? I wonder if he still has a six-pack.
I expect Julian would not appreciate that line of questioning.
Julian sets a latte in front of me. “I’m sorry I don’t know how to make a gingerbread latte.”
I sip my drink. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”
He returns to the stove, and the smell of bacon wafts toward me. Few things smell as amazing as bacon in the frying pan.
“You have another brother, don’t you?” I ask.
“Cedric is the middle child. He’s a writer.”
Right. I remember now. Cedric Fong’s first novel came out a few years ago. It was a Globe and Mail and New York Times bestseller. I didn’t read it because it was about a young, white, down-on-his-luck writer in Toronto, and it sounded...well, like the kind of thing that had been done many times before.
“He hasn’t been able to write anything for a few years, though,” Julian says. “He’s currently traveling the world, trying to find himself and get over his writer’s block, and...frankly, I’m not sure what else. I haven’t heard from him in a while.”
“My sister’s boyfriend—”
“The poor guy who had to fake a relationship?”
“Yes. Will. He’s a writer, too. Science fiction.”
Julian comes over to the table and sets a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of me.
“Dig in,” he says.
I put a forkful of scrambled eggs cooked in bacon grease into my mouth and groan. “This is really good. You know, if the whole CEO thing doesn’t work out, you could be a chef.”
“Good Lord,” he mutters. “I’m not sure I can be in your presence while you eat.”
“What? Are my manners that awful? Am I chewing with my mouth open?”
“You sound like you’re having a sexual awakening.”
I stare at Julian. There’s something intense about him, telling me that he never does anything in half measures. And, God, the muscles that are barely contained by his T-shirt...
I could easily have a sexual awakening with him.
Not happening, I tell my body. I can’t afford to get attached, especially to someone who’s admitted he doesn’t get emotionally invested in relationships.
Definitely not happening.
I have a feeling I’ll be telling myself that a lot over the next two weeks.
Chapter 9
Julian
First I had to listen to Courtney eat bacon as though she’d never tasted bacon before in her life, and now I have to listen to her shower.
She sings in the shower.
I have no idea what she’s singing, and her voice is nothing special, but I find it cute nonetheless.
We’re in her apartment. I’m sitting in the kitchen, drumming my fingers on the table as I wait for her to get ready and pack up. Then we’re going to send the suitcase back with my driver and set out to do... I have no idea what. She’s in charge and she still hasn’t told me what we’re doing today, which makes me a little uneasy. I don’t like not knowing what the plans are, but I have entrusted Courtney to fill today with fun things and promised to “go with the flow,” even if I nearly gagged as I said those words.
The shower stops, and I picture her pushing aside the shower curtain, wrapping a towel around her wet, naked body...
Damn.
I hear the whir of the hair dryer and wonder how much longer she’s going to be. It’s eleven o’clock and I still haven’t really done anything today. Vince would be proud.
But when Courtney finally emerges, wearing dark jeans and a flowing red tank top, she looks so beautiful that I immediately decide the past thirty-one minutes—yes, I timed her—were worth it.
Her suitcase is white with butterfly silhouettes. I carry it downstairs and give it to my driver, and Courtney takes my hand, pulling me toward Broadview. It’s strange holding hands with her, and just as I’m getting used to it, she lets go.
I start to ask her where we’re headed, then clamp my mouth shut, knowing it’ll be futile.
A few minutes later, I look to my left, expecting to see Courtney, but she’s not there. Nor is she to my right. No, she’s several meters behind me. I sigh and head back to her.
“You don’t need to walk like you’re late for a meeting,” she says, slowing her pace even more. Then she spreads out her arms. “Enjoy the fresh air. Smell
the roses.”
“Right,” I say. “This part of Broadview isn’t particularly interesting.”
A mother and two young children, maybe five or six years old, pass us from behind.
Nobody ever passes me when I’m walking. Usually I walk at a fast clip, and I want to punch the people who walk slowly and block my path.
But now I’m the slow walker. I ball up my hands in frustration. “I can’t walk this slowly without wanting to punch myself.”
She chuckles and slows down even more. We’re barely moving forward at all.
I shouldn’t have made that comment.
“Do you always walk like this?” I ask in horror.
In response, Courtney does something even more horrifying. She stops so she can answer my question. My God, she appears to be one of those people who can’t walk and talk at the same time.
“Hmm.” She puts her finger to her mouth. “Well, if you really want to know, I learned to walk when I was thirteen months old and then when I was two—”
“Courtney!”
She smiles. “I was just walking slowly to see how you’d react.”
Damn her. But I can’t help returning her smile.
She starts moving again, at a reasonable pace this time. Not as fast as I would normally walk, but it’s a perfectly acceptable pace that doesn’t make me want to punch things.
I let her walk in front of me so I can stare at her ass. I might actually enjoy walking at a turtle’s pace if I always had this view.
* * *
We’re sitting on the grass in Riverdale Park East, looking at the skyline of downtown Toronto to the southwest. I can see the office building where I would normally be at this time of day, even on a Saturday. I’ve never viewed the city from this angle before, and it’s rather nice. At the bottom of the hill, children are playing soccer and baseball.
Courtney lies back and pats the grass beside her. “Join me. We can find shapes in the clouds.”
I awkwardly lie back and stare at the sky. This doesn’t feel natural.
I wonder how the office is doing without me. Do they know why I’m gone? What has Priya told everyone? Are they slacking off because the boss isn’t there? And most importantly, how can I convince Courtney to give me my phone so I can check my work email? It’s not like I’m going to do actual work. I just want to check my email.
She takes out my phone and snaps a picture of me lying on my back, staring up at the sky and muttering a curse word under my breath.
“I’m sending the picture to Vince,” she says. “And to myself. You know what we should do? Make a scrapbook of your two-week holiday. Yes! We can take a scrapbooking class together.”
“I am not taking a scrapbooking class.”
“Well, since you’re stinking rich, you could hire a private instructor.”
Dear Lord. Courtney better not meet the rest of my family. I’m terrified of the plans they’d come up with.
“Do people even scrapbook anymore?” I ask. “Don’t they just make photo books online?”
She shrugs. “Dunno. I don’t make scrapbooks, but that doesn’t mean nobody else does. We could learn! Together!”
“No scrapbooking.”
What do single men my age usually do for fun? Watch sports and drink beer and play videogames, I assume. But instead, I asked a woman to teach me how to have fun because...
Well, it’s pretty obvious why I asked this particular woman.
Single men in their thirties probably also spend a lot of time figuring out how to have sex. Since Courtney declined my advances last night, I won’t push it, although the idea is definitely appealing. I have a strong urge to roll on top of her and kiss her to prevent further talk about scrapbooking, of all things.
My phone beeps, and Courtney looks at the message and smiles. I bet it’s from Vince.
No, no, no. I do not like the idea of my brother making her smile, even if he’s promised not to touch her. I grab the phone out of her hand.
She giggles and reaches for it, but my arms are longer than hers, and I manage to keep it out of her reach, then put it in my pocket.
She climbs on top of me. I’m still lying on my back, but I’m sure as shit not trying to find shapes in the clouds, not when a woman in straddling me. When she reaches for the phone again, I clamp a hand over my pocket before she can get there. I look up into her dark brown eyes. Even if I couldn’t see her pretty mouth, I’d be able to tell she was smiling from her eyes.
“Gotcha!”
Dammit. She grabbed the phone out of my pocket while I was distracted by her beauty.
I’m afraid this is going to be a recurring problem.
Also, she’s soon going to notice that I’m aroused.
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll let you keep my phone for now.” I pick her up and put her on the ground. “But tell me what Vince said.”
“Just ‘Keep up the good work!’ Don’t worry, he wasn’t flirting with me.”
“Were you flirting with me when you climbed on top of me?” I can’t help myself.
And I can’t help but be pleased when she exhales unsteadily.
“No.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “It was just the most efficient way to get your phone back, that’s all.”
Yeah, sure it was.
* * *
At Broadview and Gerrard, there’s a small collection of Chinese restaurants and stores called Chinatown East, not to be confused with “regular” Chinatown on Spadina, or the Chinese plazas in Markham, Richmond Hill, and Mississauga. I haven’t been here in years.
Courtney heads into a Chinese bakery with cheerful red décor.
“What do you want?” she asks.
I’m about to shrug and say I don’t need anything, but then something catches my eye.
“A pineapple bun.” I can’t remember the last time I had one.
She smiles at me and takes two out of the bin with a pair of tongs.
“I’ll pay for them,” I say, heading to the counter. I’m going to pay for everything this weekend and spoil her with things she might otherwise be unable to afford.
Pineapple buns, however, are something she could afford. It’s only a dollar fifty for two.
We sit down at one of the few tables in the bakery, and I bite into my bun and savor the crunchy, sweet topping. I loved these things when I was a child, and it tastes just as good as I remember.
“You know when I learned that pineapple buns don’t contain pineapple?” she says. “Just last year.”
“Really? They don’t taste like pineapple at all.” The topping just looks like pineapple, hence the name.
“But I figured there had to be pineapple. I thought I could detect a hint of it.” She shakes her head. “My mind was blown when I discovered the truth. I felt misled.”
I laugh and take another bite. “When my mother’s parents came over from China, they opened a bakery on Elizabeth Street, and then when most of Chinatown was bulldozed—”
“Huh?”
“Chinatown used to be centered on Elizabeth Street, but when it was destroyed to make way for City Hall, some of the businesses moved west to Spadina.”
“I didn’t know that. I thought it was always on Spadina.”
I shake my head. “Later, my grandparents had a bakery on Spadina, but they sold it when I was young.” I have vague memories of going there as a child. Memories of my mother arguing with my grandmother in Toisanese because my grandmother had fed me too many barbecue pork buns, and I wasn’t going to be hungry for dinner. I smile.
Courtney starts licking the crumbs off her fingers. I stare at her mouth, pineapple bun forgotten, imagining her licking the crumbs off my fingers instead, or better yet...
“Oh my God,” she says. “Julian Fong, you have a dreamy look on your face. What are you thinking about?”
Uh, sex?
But I don’t say that. I just take another bite of my pineapple bun.
And Courtney, goddammit, takes a photo of me while I�
�m shoving the bun into my mouth and trying to forget about the image of her licking things.
“Another picture for your scrapbook!” she says.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we’re standing in a store that specializes in cacti and succulents. Courtney finds it fascinating, and I’m trying my best to see it through her eyes.
And failing.
“Isn’t it cool how these plants adapted to live in such harsh environments?” she says. I suppose this is the scientist in her. “You should get a cactus.”
“I do not need a cactus.”
“You don’t have a single plant in that ginormous penthouse of yours. You should have something to brighten it up.”
“A cactus is going to brighten it up?”
“You need a living thing in your sterile home, and a cactus is perfect because it doesn’t require much attention. Just very occasional watering. You can manage that much, can’t you?”
“I’ll tell my housekeeper to take care of it.”
She rolls her eyes before stepping away from me and walking around a table of cacti, presumably trying to decide which one would suit me the best.
“I always wanted a terrarium,” she says, “but I think we’ll just get you a single cactus.” She bursts into laughter as she picks up a pot with a cactus that’s about six inches tall.
“What’s so funny?”
“Doesn’t it make you think of...”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
But as soon as I say it, I realize what she means. The cactus has two small protrusions—I don’t know what else to call them—near its base, and it’s approximately the length and diameter of, well, an erect penis.
An erect penis with spikes.
“Really?” she says. “You have no idea—”
“I figured it out.”
“I’m buying it for you. I shall call it Joey.”
“Why Joey?”
“Dunno. Just looks like a Joey to me.”
That makes no sense. “I will not let you buy me a phallic cactus named Joey.”
